Heroes Of Olympus
by baconandmalec
Summary: MORTAL AU. Also on my wattpad ffsvertes. Based on the seven, Nico and Calypso having disorders or traumatic experiences. TRIGGERS INCLUDE: eating disorders, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, anxiety, skin-picking disorders, abuse, rape, depression, drugs, schizophrenia. Probably very inaccurate, criticism is welcome! Read and review xx
1. Leo Valdez

It's hard not to notice Leo Valdez. He's nuts. I mean, literally. He's got a permanent residence at the mental institution.

But, you might be wondering why it's not hard to miss him. If he's in a mental institution, then wouldn't he being surrounded by people just like himself? Would he not, I don't know, blend in? Can't he be a normal mentally disordered kid?

I suppose a lot of the people over there, at the institute, fidget constantly. Have trouble focusing. Let their mind wander.

But still, I don't know many who stare at the dinner table instead of eating, every night, trying to convince the others sitting at his table, that yes, of course it's growing legs, can't you see it too?

Some of them get a bit worried, try to inch away from him during one of his episodes but he tugs on their sleeves and pleads with them.

"Please don't go. Don't go, don't go, don't go. The others left me too, they didn't believe me, but you do right?"

No one had tried to figure out who he means by 'others' but instead they nod their heads frantically and smile. And they thought they were maniacs until they met Leo Valdez.

He was stressed more often than not, but when it got really bad, that's when the fire hallucinations happened. You can tell when it's coming, because he starts looking around desperately, then puts his head in his hands.

By the time he starts shaking, you know it's too late to hope for him to calm down.

He blows and spits on his hands and when he begins to cry "It's burns!" the pain in his voice almost tricks you into thinking it's real.

It scares the other patients more than anything. He runs around, pressing the fire alarms, clawing at his hair and screaming "Fire!" over and over again.

When you approach him, he backs away, "Stay away, stay away, stay away. I'll burn you, I'm on fire, I'm on fire."

At times like these, you can see the trauma in his eyes more than ever. I suppose seeing his mother get burned alive started it all. It didn't help that he was the only one there, and he was so young he didn't know what to do.

Some days you will catch him talking to someone, or more accurately, no one. In his head, he is getting a reply, but the one-sided conversations are interesting enough.

"It's all my fault. I let her die."

"I keep catching on fire like my mum, Festus."

"I don't want to die here. Sure, I want to die, just not here. Not somewhere that they all think I'm crazy."

"They say they're trying to help me, to heal me, but there is nothing wrong with me. I don't need to fixing."

"You should hear them, Festus. They don't believe me. They don't listen like you do. Maybe if they met you, they'll understand."

"Festus, everyone is telling me you aren't real. That you're all in my head. Crazy kids don't have an imagination, because they see the world as it is, too real. That's why they're crazy. That's why they think I'm crazy."

My head! It's on fire! It burns, it burns, get it off, get it off! Stop it, it's hurting, I'm going to burn, I'm going to end up a pile of ashes, help me, help me!

As if the catching on fire, a walking table and a nonexistent person named Festus isn't enough, he tries to get the other patients to talk to them too. Don't you see the table's arms? Look he's moving away, there he goes! We have to go get him, he's trying to run away again.

The rumours are that he's introducing the dinner table as Buford now. And he's saying that Festus is a metal dragon.

The saddest part about Leo Valdez? When he's telling you about his burnt fingers, and his best friends Buford and Festus, you look into his eyes and you can tell that every word that comes out of his mouth, is the absolute truth.


	2. Percy Jackson

Even when he removes every flaw, (trust me, every flaw, he checks twice.) he still isn't flawless.

Oh, Percy Jackson, yeah that Percy, shy, self conscious one? Wait 'til you see what he is self conscious about.

Yes, he gets it, it's wrong and disgusting and he is never entirely pleased with his skin but somehow it is, just the slightest bit satisfying when he picks off that freckle. Oh and that one. Look, a blackhead on your neck, better squeeze it.

And indeed that is dead skin and blood under his fingernails, and yes that is always there.

He can't do one thing normally anymore. Whether he's trying to read the newspaper and his fingers are itching to scrape at those scabs on his arms, or he's eating and he can't resist using his spoon as mirror, checking no new pimples have appeared.

"Disgusting, you're disgusting, you have to be perfect."

That's what he tells himself every time he does it. It doesn't help one bit. He knows that this won't make him perfect. But he can't help the need to pick his skin every time he catches sight of his reflection.

The moment he is left alone, his nails dart to the back of his neck, rome his scalp, looking for the slightest bump, any indication that he should scratch there. He's constantly looking for every excuse to dig his nails into his skin.

The worst feeling it when you can't break the skin. Or can't find any skin to break.

Squeezing, prodding, picking, scraping and popping. It's what he lives for.

The pain doesn't affect Percy. The pain is constant, not just when he is picking. When your clothes rub against raw skin, when you bump into something that knocks a scab or two. Either it stopped hurting after a while or he got used to the constant ache.

Honestly, it was mostly a subconscious force of habit. Like his mind reacted to being left alone by instinctively clawing at his body. Amazing, isn't it? What you don't realise you are doing until it's too late to stop yourself?

Percy could be half asleep and still his hand was scratching that tiny blemish on his cheek and suddenly he would wake up to a small patch of blood on his pillow. Nothing new.

It only got worse when he was particularly anxious.

I supposed it smoothes him in a way. If he's stressed, he'll drop everything and stand in front of his mirror, completely naked. So he can see every tiny detail about himself that he might've missed previously.

If he was angry and he tried to release his tension by skin-picking, it could end up quite nasty. Being furious and all doesn't make you careful, and Percy's torn out a fair few chunks of skin before.

This little "problem," who knows when it started? It could've been when he was a teenager, because God knows he had bad acne then.

When he left it alone, it spread but when he prodded it, it's worsened. Slowly the acne inched it's way down his back, across his stomach, leaving it's mark on his chest and neck. Leaving not one spot untouched.

So neither would Percy.


	3. Piper Mclean

Piper Mclean was just like any other high school popular girl. She was rich, thanks to her movie-star dad, she was unbelievably gorgeous, there was not an inch of fat on her bones, she had amazingly clear skin and way too many friends to even remember all of their names.

But even the prettiest girls have things that go on behind closed doors. Or more specifically, for Piper, behind closed bathroom doors.

It began as her just being obsessed. Counting her calories a little too closely, staring at the mirror a little too long, standing on the scales a little too often. Then she started noticing those tiny, practically non-existent, pouches of fat. She had to get rid of them.

It's not like she was ever fat or she ever thought she was. It's not like when she saw people with a little chub, that she thought they were disgusting, because they aren't, it was just for herself.

One day she just caught sight of her reflection and thought, "Yes, those thighs are too big. That stomach sticks out just enough to be called fat. Those arms definitely jiggle around. Some less fat around that waist couldn't hurt."

And from then on, every time she saw a bit of food, that's all she could think about. She got that sick feeling in her stomach with every mouthful of food, like she had ate too much when in reality, she hadn't eaten nearly enough. She knew she had to get rid of that sick feeling and there was only one way she knew how to.

She swore to herself, only once, only once and nobody would find out that the amazingly perfect Piper Mclean had stuck her fingers down her throat. Only that one time though.

Piper knew it was wrong. But then the uncomfortable feeling in her stomach came back and she thought, "Twice. That's it, that my limit."

Oh, but this little habit continued on for a long time. She thought of it less and less wrong, and more and more of an escape. She wouldn't stop until all that gross flab was gone, until her stomach concaved and her thigh gap grew to the size of her thigh. Until her arms were so thin, she felt like she was floating and her stomach so empty that she _could_ float.

She was so paranoid about her weight, that she didn't notice those small warning signs, telling her to stop. She didn't realise all her so-called friends stopped wanting to be seen with her, until she was eating, or more accurately, not eating lunch by herself. She paid no attention to the drops of blood in her vomit, or the scabs on her knuckles.

She didn't think much of her rotting teeth, just scrubbing away at them to rid herself of the taste of vomit. The ribs that showed were satisfying when she should've been scared to death of them.

Slowly, but surely, her hair began to fall out. If her arms were strong enough to lift a hairbrush to brush her hair, perhaps she would have noticed. But she didn't. Everyone seemed to notice that constant smell of puke that surrounded her except herself.

If only she could see what everyone else saw. A girl so tiny that the slightest brush of something against her ever-so pale skin left dark bruises, a girl so damaged it would be impossible to fix her completely, a girl who was once so beautiful.

When she looked in the mirror, she didn't see that girl. She saw a girl with thin, straggly hair, thighs still a bit too thick, coarse, dark hair on her arms, blood under her fingernails and puffy cheeks.

She didn't look fragile at all to herself. In fact, she looked tough, like nothing could stop her.

And nothing ever did stop her.


	4. Annabeth Chase

Annabeth Chase.

That girl that flinches just enough when you raise your hand, to be found suspicious. Who has bruises along her arms that are a bit too precise. Whose eyes widen when you raise your voice.

That girl who stands too far away from her boyfriend to realise that yes, he is her boyfriend.

Not many people realise they are dating. I mean, usually it isn't hard to tell, right? Couples usually look at each other and all you can see in their faces is love and happiness.

When he looks at her, you can see his desire and lust. When she looks at him, you can see her vulnerability and fear reflected in her eyes.

There's no love. There's nothing happy about their relationship.

I don't make author's notes usually, but thanks for the reads and support. Sorry about the short chapter! I originally published this all on Wattpad and have been copying and pasting this directly from Wattpad and when I went to copy this chapter, most of the chapter had been deleted I worked very hard on all these one-shots and I'm very disappointed this happened. As it has been months since I first wrote this, I won't be re-writing it. So sorry! Love you all.


	5. Nico DiAngelo

When Nico DiAngelo's asleep, he dreams of dying. When he's awake, he wishes he was dead. When he's blacked out from the pain of cutting too deep, he prays that was the cut that ends it.

But someone always manages to find him, sigh a little bit and send him back to the hospital.

A little too many pills here, a little less blood left in him there. Damn it, I think that's the third time this month that he's been on suicide watch.

Sometimes he thinks life is playing a game with him, "let's see how long it'll take him to screw up again!" His record is eight days. Pretty good, eh?

Oh yes, he loves it. Pain is his drug, and blades are his drug dealer. It's a bit sick actually, the way a smile plays across his face when he thinks of the damage he'll do tonight. The way Nico laughs a little as he thinks up new possibilities that could end with him dying.

He says he wants to join his dead sister, that's she's just beckoning him down to Hell. A little twisted, but he acts like it's completely normal.

Now that was Nico when he was happy. Thinking about death and self-destruction in a slightly more cheerful way.

There were times when his depression got the better of him. When he couldn't stop thinking about his dead sister, dead-beat father and hopefully dead mother, and he was also, in some way, dying inside. Because today isn't worth living, neither is tomorrow, oh and surprise, he doesn't feel like being alive for at least the next week.

Yes, of course it's painful. It's self harm, it burns, it stings, it aches, it leaves nasty scars that leave everyone wondering what from. That's the whole freaking point. He enjoys feeling the smooth blade lightly skim his thighs before gradually putting more and more force on it until... Ah. Relief. Like all his problems and suicidal thoughts have drifted away. At least until the pain slowly dulls.

Nico isn't ashamed of the lines criss-crossing the insides of his wrists. He doesn't care who notices the burn marks trailing his stomach when his shirt rides up. Sure, he isn't necessarily proud of them, but why bother covering them when someone will find out anyway? If he makes a big deal of hiding them, they'll make a big deal of finding them.

Sometimes they mistake the scars for stretch marks, cat scratches or paper cuts for instance. How they could think of something so meaningless when they see them, Nico does not know.

One more cut for Bianca, another burn for his mother, an extra bruise for his father. So much more significant then stretch marks, cat scratches and paper cuts.


	6. Frank Zhang

**Another author's note! The chapters on Wattpad are a lot better, because I am used to Wattpad, and can be bothered using italics and bold. I know I haven't been putting trigger warnings and disclaimers, but at least the triggers were in the description and here's the disclaimer now: I do not own any of these characters or universes. The only things I own are the plotlines. Enjoy...**

Frank Zhang's body was twisting and turning painfully. Well, it would be painful for him if he wasn't sleeping. Just another nightmare, he had gotten used to them by now.

Then again, you couldn't really call it a nightmare. More accurately, a flashback.

Dirty hands roaming his body. He could recall the precise details of his hands, crawling over his body.

Unrepeatable things whispered in his ears. Over and over again. Like having to hear them the first time wasn't bad enough.

When the memories were triggered back, the feelings came in stages.

Shame.

Why him? Why did he have to fall victim to those unforgiving hands. Don't let anyone know how disgusting you are. How you have already been used and tossed aside.

Depression.

You deserve it. You deserve the nightmares. You deserved the traumatic experience and everything that came along with it.

Anger.

How could this happen? How could someone so terrible have been brought into your life? I want him _dead_.

Disgust.

How do you see someone and think, God, I should ruin their lives. I should be the one to plague their minds every night and the one who he should be reminded of every time he sees himself. How can you look at a complete stranger and decide to touch their body in ways it shouldn't be touched. Why is that the first thing that comes to mind?

A single word could bring it all back. The smallest touch could cause the pain to come flooding, all over again.

Frank. Sweet, innocent Frank. You wouldn't think that he was waking up at 1 a.m. screaming, covered in sweat and vomit. You wouldn't notice the constant panic and fear in his eyes unless you knew him before the incident.

It's the late nights that really get to him. Once he has nothing to distract himself with, his thoughts immediately dart back to that one night. The sticky skin-on-skin. The body that was so forcefully pushed against his. The hand Frank couldn't get off of him, sliding under the waistband of his shorts. The cries for help that for some reason, just couldn't leave his throat.

And now, 16 and while all his friends sex drives are at their all times highs, Frank won't let anyone touch him. He can't. Not even himself.


	7. Hazel Levesque

Hazel Levesque is the kind of girl that everyone knows, but nobody knows. You know?

The kind of a girl that occasionally forgets to take her anti-depressants and sort of, kinda shoplifts. Stealing is like her replacement anti-depressant. Back-up plan. Second choice. Another option. Not quite prescribed, but a hell of a lot more effective than those pills.

Hazel Levesque is the kind of girl that gets so low *sometimes, so drained of energy and spirit and feelings, that she makes a hurried excuse to her parents, dashes out of her house and takes some things to fill in the hole in her heart.

*Sometimes is quite often actually. Everything wounds up in the closet, crumpled and forgotten. Can't risk being seen wearing that sweater that coincidentally, some anonymous person (around 5"5'? Dark skin, lots of bushy hair? Have you seen her?) stole recently.

Yeah, sure, she's been caught. Usually her parents don't have to get involved but with the occasional case that they do, they just brush it off, take her back to more therapists, try to get her hooked with stronger medication. Just have to let them believe she's doing better and then that's one less problem to get rid of! Right?

No, Hazel Levesque was not the kind of depressed that she wants to die. Nor is she littered with cuts. In fact, other than some thoughtless comments about her skin that she doesn't care much for, she hasn't been bullied.

She is the kind of depressed that she sometimes just curls up in a ball, no energy to move, no motivation to think, and she stays that way for a day or two. The kind of depressed that she feels as though something important is missing from her life, but she just can't figure out what (spoiler alert: it's happiness.).

This void inside her, it's something her compulsive stealing can't fix. Sure, it will fill it temporary, occupy it with adrenaline, excitement, and later, anxiety. But every time, without fail, after a few hours, Hazel realises that's not what the gap needs to be satisfied, and then it all disappears and she's back to feeling the same emptiness she started off with, the same emptiness that she's unfortunately, used to.

The anti-depressants don't help. They only numb her emotions, but her emotions are what she needs more of. She needs to feel. Something, anything.

All Hazel wants is to feel complete again. To feel okay. To feel whole.


	8. Jason Grace

There's that kid down the road, Jason Grace. Also known as the "bad boy" of town. I mean, he probably doesn't acknowledge it, as he is high about 99% of the time. He claims that it "sets him free" and allows him to "slip away from reality."

What bullsh*t. Let's face it, he's a drug addict.

Ice, ecstasy, cocaine, heroin, ketamine. He buys whatever he can get his greedy hands on at the time. He can't be deprived for more than a few hours.

Yeah, drug addicts don't sound all that careful, but he does make sure not the overdose or take more than one kind at once. That would be a tad awkward to explain if someone found him passed out.

Although he doesn't pass out, he does vomit and get nose bleeds far too often to be found normal.

He never sleeps. If you ever see him, which is unlikely unless you hang around that part of town a lot, he has these huge, seemingly permanent bags under his eyes. His ribs stick out, more often than not, he has a black eye and his cheeks are hollow.

It's like he has no flesh. I mean, it literally looks like he is just a pile of hastily assembled bones with skin stretched over the top, and maybe a couple of necessary but barely working organs in the mix.

I have no clue what went through his mind to get him to this state. I'm surprised he still has the money. He doesn't work, in fact, I don't even think he has a home anymore.

He has got no water, no food, no home, no friends, no sense, no priorities, no responsibilities. Just money, drugs and connections. Which, as far as he is concerned, is all he needs to survive.

Jason Grace, former rich, white kid with an amazing girlfriend, destined to go to Yale and be successful lawyer. What went wrong?

The old Jason Grace, the one everyone knew before he got addicted, is long forgotten. His friends have all moved on and when his name does come up in conversations, it is hushed pretty quickly. He isn't a person anymore. He is just another statistic that no one pays attention to, not until the number grows scarily big.

What went so horrible in his perfect life that got him to turn to drugs for support? Or did he just decide to experiment one day? Who knows. It's too late for anything to change. He's too far into this mess to get out.

His time is running out. He'll keep withering away until he is only dust, as fine as the drugs he take, or he'll pass out from the exhaustion that comes with getting no sleep and this time he won't wake up. Maybe he'll even overdose or take two drugs that shouldn't be mixed. Perhaps he'll get beaten to death.

Oh the possibilities are endless and sadly, any one of them have a very likely chance of happening.


	9. Calypso

And then there's me. Plain old Calypso. I wish it were so simple, but I'm just as damaged as those I mentioned before.

Sure, I don't quite hallucinate, or stick my fingers down my throat. I don't even pick my skin or hurt myself intentionally. I get decent sleeps most night, without waking up screaming from flashbacks or you know, not actually sleeping at all. Stealing isn't my type, neither is sticking around an abusive boyfriend.

Yeah, I just can't stand anything less than perfect or odd numbers or actually I can't look at something without my fingers itching to put it in order and, now that I think about it, everything has to be either in colour order, ascending, descending or chronological and also those laces aren't tied right, can you please redo them? And, sorry, your bed sheets weren't straight, I fixed them for you!

Each breath I take should be evenly spaced, each step I move must be take the same amount of time the last one did. I crave precision, perfection and peace.

Precise, exact, definite, pinpoint.

Perfect, complete, immaculate, flawless.

Peace, pride, relief, satisfaction.

It's my O.C.D. that makes me double check that all the power point and light switches are turned off every night. And then check once more. And then flick them all on and off four times.

It's my O.C.D. that convinces me to scrub at my hands after I touch something. It could just be a pen, a table, a pillow. I wash my hands until they are raw and blistered and only then will I be able to calm down. After that, I wash my hands twice again, for good luck.

It's my O.C.D. that makes me fix anything that is crooked, smudged or anything the tiniest bit flawed. I catch sight of it and my mind goes blank, my heart stops for a second and my fingers reach towards whatever it is and... I don't even realise what I'm doing. I like to think that O.C.D. means you control things, but O.C.D. itself is uncontrollable.

I call my family and loved ones each once every two days, to make sure that they are okay. Before I leave my house, I check that any water taps aren't leaking (What? It could flood within the 10 minutes that I'm away...), that the burglar alarms (Yes, plural.) are working and that all windows are closed securely (Every. Single. Window). After I leave my house, I check that each of my doors are locked exactly 6 times (Nothing more, nothing less).

In the morning, I brush my teeth for exactly 8 minutes, I floss between every teeth 4 times (Each tooth should take 8 seconds.) and swish my mouthwash around my mouth for 30 seconds.

I do not speak of the number 13, more than any other odd number, I do not touch the colour red (Satan, blood, H.I.V., AIDS associated), I do not use hot water, I do not eat out. I cannot hear the word death without repeating the word 'life' ten times. I gave up on romantic or sexual relationships long ago.

I lock away knives and sewing needles in case they somehow find their way into my hands and I hide sleeping pills in case I need to cook for someone and I end up poisoning them. I avoid driving as much as I can, but I could contract germs from public transport, I could injure myself while riding a bike, so I walk nearly everywhere I go.

I get anxious about the fact that I could become very sick if I don't eat enough but I worry that people will think that I am a pig if I eat too much. I stay far away from hospitals, with their illnesses and drugs.

I don't eat dry food or food with large portions as I could choke. I only buy shoes that have good grip and always have to buy new pairs as they could be too dirty. But I never throw away the old pairs, just keep them in neat rows at the back of my closet.

I sit with precise posture. I do not wear make-up. I do not use any chemicals.

I change my sheets and pillow cases every afternoon.

No, wait. Not me, I don't do any of that stuff. My O.C.D. does.

I am obsessive.

I am compulsive.

I am disordered.

 **My last chapter! Hope you enjoyed, I wrote this at the start of this year though and got a bit lazy. Maybe I'll fix some things later but it's so much effort aha love you guys xx**


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